


By Hand

by halotolerant



Category: Tintin (Comic), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Clothing Kink, Kink Negotiation, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Kink, Self-Discovery, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s warm, snug and soft in the master bedroom, and Tintin realises that he must have dozed – as he blinks he takes in that it is dark now, finally, and there is the long-awaited sound of a car crunching over the gravel outside the window.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Hand

It’s warm, snug and soft in the master bedroom, and Tintin realises that he must have dozed – as he blinks he takes in that it is dark now, finally, and there is the long-awaited sound of a car crunching over the gravel outside the window.

Lying on the bed, he shifts, stretching, and suddenly remembers. 

Feels it, all over his skin.

Under his hands, under his bare feet, the silk counterpane is cool and smooth, but more or less all the rest of him is swamped in the thick, itchy-scratchy wool of Haddock’s oldest blue sweater, which rasps everywhere. He’s not wearing anything else. 

Deliberately, he spreads his legs, reaches out his arms – a starfish, an octopus, spreading across the whole wide bed. 

Outside, the car engine has stopped. There is the sound of a door opening, then slamming shut. 

The weave is tickling over him. He flushes, heat cresting, prickling in tandem with the fibres, every sensation heightening as the blood rushes through his skin. 

This is not a game; he is not playing at being anything but himself. 

There is sweat beading up by the roots of his hair, in the small of his back. So warm. 

And there... between his legs. Hard. Hot. Pressing up against the wool, which rubs just so, _just_ so, if he shifts just slightly, and he’s damp there too, he knows it. And all this heat, all this evaporation is lifting scents from the sweater; pipe tobacco, tar, whiskey, fuel-oil, brine and musk, that specific smell that is Archie Haddock and nothing and no one else. 

He hears himself whine as he rolls over – purposely, moving simply because he must - and automatically raises his finger to his mouth, biting down, focussing on the clear, bright pain of his own teeth, trying to control his breathing.

\- - - ~ - - - 

“I do not believe in punishment here,” Father Gregorious had said, as he spoke to the assembled ranks of boys who had arrived that day into the school, a motley assortment of thirteen year-olds ranging in height, weight and development, but already identically obedient. Generally speaking, their previous institutions had seen punishment as somewhat integral.

Tintin stood tall, neither in the back or front row, and listened very carefully. 

“Here, we will help you to avoid sin, rather than expect you to manage all alone. It is difficult to be young, but it will be even more difficult when you have left here and gone out into the world. But just as in your lessons you start with the simplest problems and go forward, so it shall be with everything. One step at a time.”

That night, in the new dormitory, and every night to follow, their hands were tied, quite loosely, to the bed posts. You could scratch your nose but not much more than that. 

Quite why it was felt that they were only a risk to themselves at night was never clear. Since doing nothing lead to involuntary shaming of oneself – the sheets in the morning, the production made of removing them by the matron, the requirement to write out pages of Bible verses (this was not apparently punishment but education) – over the following years they all learnt to snatch their moments by day, quick and above all silent. 

Tintin succumbed – that was how he saw it, as surrender, failure – as infrequently as he could stand. But sometimes it seemed the only possible thing to do, an urge more vital than any reason, and so he remembers this: whitewashed walls in the outhouse toilet block, wooden doors you leant against to make sure they stayed shut, the scent of gorse blossom from the edges of the playing field, other boys shouting in the distance, heat, heat, heat in his hand, strumming urgent powerful bliss, and biting his fingers, hard, harder.

It did not connect to anything, did not occur to him that it could or might involve other people – they were never taught that there was any reason it would. 

At sixteen he was free of the place - he had not been unhappy, but he had always dreamed across the pages of the atlas. Being able to leap on a ship and go half way round the world was far more exciting than anything else he might have chosen to do with his body.

Sometimes, still, it caught him: It. That. Something not deserving a name.

It would never have seemed right to him to have that feeling in a bed. Like everything else socially unacceptable to be rapidly relieved of, it belonged in the bathroom, and if he made a noise, he bit it back. Most of all, he hated it if he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

\- - -

“You’re a fine young man,” General Alcazar told him once. He’d said fairly similar things before – he was a like a confetti parade for compliments, medals, titles... To be in favour with Alcazar was all that really mattered in his regime, and Tintin hadn’t understood at the time just how much was wrong with that.

He hadn’t understood much at all, not then. And so he’d smiled at the compliment, picked up another dispatch that needed attention and changed the subject. 

Once, Alcazar touched him. It was only years later that he perceived it to be different from any other moment they’d bumped into each other, but then perhaps he intuited more than he realised, because he remembered it, always, Alcazar’s hand warm on the small of his back, so low that the last finger spanned the cleft in his buttocks. 

Instinctively, scarcely even processing it, he’d pulled away. It never happened again.

\- - -

“I’m sorry,” Captain Haddock said, and moved away, the warmth of him retreating.

They were in South America, in the Palace of the Incas, sharing a bed for the second night because the barred window did little against the cold of the high mountain. “You don’t understand. I mustn’t...”

Tintin had grabbed Haddock’s arms, drawing him back. “I understand enough,” he said softly, firmly. And then, speaking it aloud more because it was revelation for him than because he anticipated the effect the words would have, “If you don’t touch me, I’ll have to touch myself, you see, I can’t...”

Haddock had closed with him, then, with a low, perfect growl.

Despite his theories, Tintin had not been certain that these were not to be their last days on the earth.

He did not feel afraid, spending them as they did. He did not feel ashamed – it was too wonderful to be something evil. 

He did, perhaps, suddenly feel more afraid for his life than he had ever previously, seeing now that this, _this_ was how he could be living it. 

That this was how he could be alive.

\- - - ~ - - - 

In the bedroom, Tintin gnaws his fingers to keep from putting a hand between his legs, and listens for the footstep up the stair and to the landing.

He’s been waiting days for this chance, and today, with Haddock called away to magistrate duties in a nearby town, he’d realised the moment had come. Waiting for the passage of the hours – of breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea - had been agony. He’d never failed so miserably at making his way through a book, and even running through the grounds with Snowy had done nothing to calm him down. 

After tea, he’d bathed, carefully, resisting the urge to let his hands slip too often over himself. The very thought of this – of being here, this way – had left him hard, and getting dry, going to the bedroom, finding the sweater and getting into it were quite enough to leave him aching. Sleep had been a kind of relief. 

It is not that he isn’t frightened. 

There is something in this... in this _display_ , that is almost overwhelming for him. It is so very sexual – he blushes even thinking the word, which says it all. 

Wanting Haddock, in as far as it meant wanting to be close to him, to hold him – that never seemed anything but natural. 

Discovering, with him, what closeness could become – when Haddock finally believed that Tintin wanted everything that there could be, that followed easily enough. To hug, to kiss, to lie down together and then... Always that trail into silence, into gasps under the sheets, Haddock taking him into his arms, stroking them together. 

It seemed like the way embracing was intended. And it is sweet and secret between them, intimate and caring. 

But it – it, that feeling, that tenseness in his belly that coils between his legs, that urge to be close, closer – it is not just for private evenings. Sometimes when Haddock entertains, or when they go out to town, to the cinema, Tintin will find himself unable to shift his mind from their proximity, unable to get his body to calm down or cool off, leaving him aroused and aching.   
Haddock feels it too. That is what has entranced Tintin. That in a crowded room, an exhibition or a lunch party, he can brush past his Captain and make him bite his lip. 

Not just the Captain, either. He can read it on other men now, the looks. The last time they saw Alcazar, despite the wife, despite the fact that Tintin knows he will never seek that from anyone but his Archie, he felt it. 

And, understood, finally, a lot of things he never had between them. 

Alcazar did not try hard enough to seduce him, all those years ago, so as to hurt a boy who didn’t understand the concept. But Tintin can see now that if he had understood, or even guessed, that’s when it might have happened. 

It’s a discovery, a hugely important discovery. And he’s always been one for adventure.

\- - - ~ - - -

“That’s new,” Haddock had said from behind him, and Tintin had spun round, not sure if he was embarrassed or relieved to be discovered.

Haddock helped him with these feelings, with understanding, with exploration. Always had. 

Tintin rubbed his lips together again – they were swelling slightly, as if he’d been kissing. And the redness, that must create the same impression – probably that was the point, really. 

Castafiore had left the things behind – she’d bought so many extra bits and pieces even in a ‘short’ visit that her trunks had overflowed, and she’d scattered handfuls of make-up, calling out gaily to give them to the maidservants or whoever else.

One unused lipstick labelled ‘Imperial plum’ had rolled under a piece of furniture and on that day Tintin had happened upon it, searching for one of Snowy’s toys. 

The ideas in his mind, as he stood there holding it in his hand, were indistinct but compelling. Something to do with women, with wanting men, with showing wanting with colour, like birds but with the genders reversed. Something to do with wanting to be wanted. Something to do with labelling, with it, with that, with... sex. 

He had no idea how long he’d been staring at the mirror, at the neat gloss purple on his lips, the way it made them catch the light, the way it made his mouth feel like a word underlined; important. 

“Oh, Tintin,” Haddock had said, walking forwards, and only when he touched him did Tintin realise he was trembling. And hard, in his pyjamas, a damp patch forming over his groin. 

He’d swallowed through a dry mouth. “It’s not wrong is it? Is it, Archie?” 

Haddock had smiled, but looked almost bewildered. “Not wrong at all. Some people...” he opened his hands, seeming to cast around for words. “Some men like wearing it. Some like other men wearing it.”

“You don’t.”

Haddock kissed him, quickly. “It’s not something that matters very much to me. Like wearing socks to bed or something, it just doesn’t matter. But if you like it, that does matter.” He gazed at him intently. “Everything you want matters.”

Tintin held him close for a moment, soaking in the feeling of safety, even as his hips yearned for friction, and Haddock’s answering hardness stoked his own arousal even higher. 

“I don’t know if I like it or if it scares me. But it feels so...” he sighed. Then, after a pause, looking up, tentative. “Is there something that... that does matter to you?”

Haddock flushed, so Tintin knew he was lying when he said “Nothing in particular.”

And eventually, gently, they’d got to the subject of Tintin in the sweater.

Of Tintin in just the sweater.

\- - - ~ - - -

There is a slight click as the bedroom door is opened, and Tintin rolls onto his back, hearing his own breathing, the blood rushing in his ears, feeling the stickiness of his sore fingers as he takes them from his mouth, leaving damp smears on his cheek. The fabric shifts again across his crotch and he bites his lip to keep from moaning, but had he spoken it would not have been audible over the noise Haddock makes as he sees him.

He’s dressed for town, a smart tweed suit and waistcoat, neat gloves and a monocle, both of which he drops on the carpet, apparently unregarded.

“I waited,” Tintin says, he’s not sure why, and his voice sounds hoarse and harsh. 

“Oh old lad,” Haddock murmurs, and stumbles in, slamming the door blindly behind him, and coming to kneel, or more, collapse, by the bed, his head level with Tintin’s feet.

Tintin smiles. This had seemed so big, so much, and so arousing, and it is those things, but yet, now, it is also just the two of them. And that is always right. 

Haddock moves up, reaches for him, but Tintin shakes his head gently and shuffles back a little, shimmying the sweater edge up and over his hips so his... his thing, his cock, is exposed, stiff and wet.

He puts his hand to himself. He makes the motion clear and distinct and unafraid. Then, nervous, he makes himself meet Haddock’s gaze.

Haddock’s expression makes it hard not to abandon everything and embrace him. He bends to the side and gently kisses the arch of Tintin’s foot – Tintin cries out, for it feels better than he could have imagined – and then settles back onto his knees before him, watching. 

Tintin catches himself trying to put his other hand in his mouth, the tooth-worried fingers protesting, and with a moan of frustration he puts them down on the cover again, trying to concentrate. 

Then comes a warmth over the bruised skin. Haddock has leant forward and taken Tintin’s hand into his own, firm and secure.

Tintin grips tightly, and raises his eyes again. 

And finally, he knows, for once and for all, for certain, that there is no shame in this surrender. Or, at least, that Haddock sees none, and that, really, is what matters to him.

\- - -


End file.
